More Than Words Can Say
by StormInMyHeart
Summary: Plot, what plot? Tiva smuttiness.


:: :: ::

She gradually swam out of the unconsciousness of sleep, to find his hand lying warm on her breast, gently caressing her.

Her body stirred ever so slightly under his touch, and she arched her back, offering herself up to that hand that continued to glide teasingly over her all-too-willing body.

Those fingertips were tracing her gently rounded curves with an openly possessive delight. Those hands were warming her through the thin cotton jersey that she had pulled on the night before, in deference to the slight breeze that had sprung up, the shirt that now lay bunched upon the swell of her hip. The shirt that she had donned because it belonged to him, smelled of him, and settled over her as softly as his arms or his hands would.

They were in a large, comfortable bed, lying on their sides, her back to his chest, his arm draped almost possessively over her slight form.

It was a delightful surprise to be able to just lie here in bed with him, sleeping in, lying wrapped in each other's arms, feeling lazy and sated after a long night spent pleasing each other and being pleased in turn. And knowing, with almost smug satisfaction, that should they desire it, they could spend the entire day, or even the entire weekend, in this same manner.

In bed. Together. Refusing to be called away from their inviting retreat by anything as mundane as what the world outside might have to offer them. Knowing that all they were looking for - that all they really needed - was right there beside them.

In view of that delicious and decidedly decadent idea, Ziva sighed softly. There was just the slightest hint of a moan lying beneath the sound, adding strength to it. Adding depth and texture, the way a pinch of spice added complexity to an already tasty dish.

He heard the languid breath of air. And the longing that had fueled it. Almost as if in silent answer to her plea, he slipped one arm beneath her, between the mattress and her waist, and pulled her body even closer to his. Then the hand on that arm continued the enjoyable work begun by his other hand: the complete and utter seduction of her breasts.

After spending uncountable minutes tantalizing her, and perhaps no longer content to merely lavish attention on one portion of her body, he tugged the shirt away from her shoulder, allowing him the necessary room to nibble carefully there on the newly revealed ridge of muscle. He nipped, then licked the soft skin, upping the stakes.

Restlessly, her legs rubbed slowly against each other. His longer limbs entwined with hers, his knee slipping between her thighs, opening her body to his, the coarse hair on his legs tickling her just a little bit.

Not wanting to be a passive participant in this little game, she took the back of her foot and glided it along his calf, teasing him. She immediately heard his breath change; catch, then unravel. And she smiled to herself with the knowledge that she could move him with such ease.

Even as her body slowly awakened, she deliberately kept her eyes closed, not quite ready to wholly abandon sleep. The powerful mingling of slumber and gentle caresses, however, were weaving a spell over her, creating a lovely sort of fantasy world that she found difficult to leave. And, to tell the truth, she couldn't really see him from their current positions. With her sight thus disengaged, she was able to concentrate more fully on her other senses.

She could savor the muted, musky, very masculine smell of him, sweet and familiar. Concentrate on the scent of *them*, concentrate on the scent of what they'd done together in that same bed, not so many hours before.

She could focus on the sound of his lips as they met her skin, concentrate on the faintly moist noise they made as they touched her, shielding his teeth as they went about their infinitely pleasurable business.

She could concentrate on his touch. Most of all, his touch. It was easy; light, yet sure. It flowed with the speed of sun-warmed honey over a body already completed attuned to the sweep of his fingers, a body so yearning for that instantaneous flash of arousal that only he could spark in her, that, even at his first touch, her nipples had instantly hardened, and her core had liquefied, grown hot, engorged, needy.

It was as if she had somehow become physically addicted to him, once she'd tasted him, tasted his lips, touched his chest, touched the strong planes of his back, touched the tender column of his throat. Touched that part of his anatomy that was so very different from her own, decidedly feminine, form. Feeling him buried inside her, filling the void there. Moving, slowly at first, then the pace quickening. A sheen of sweat misting over them. Their pulses pounding, one after the other, like a drum roll. Until they were both racing for that sweet release that only they could give each other.

Oh, yes, this was definitely an addiction.

With a kind of scarcely controlled eagerness, one of his hands slipped beneath the covers, and, slightly trembling, stroked the smooth length of her thigh. Her arousal had reached the point where she was having difficulty staying still. She thought about turning over, rolling into his embrace, facing him, but he wouldn't let her. He kept her body lightly pinned against his, his hold gentle, yet relentless.

And, to tell the truth, she wasn't in a big hurry to change their positions. She liked the sensation of being covered by him, of wearing his body like some exotic garment. She just wanted more; more of him, more of his caresses, more of his kisses. More of everything.

Once again, he reacted as if he'd read her mind. After smoothing his hand a half dozen times softly down her leg and back up again, he hooked his thumb over the waistband of the little wisp of bikini underwear she'd worn to bed, and yanked them down and away.

"I don't think you'll be needing these any more," he assured her, in a sleep-roughened voice from right next to her ear, speaking his first words to her since she'd awakened. She felt the mattress shift, heard the scratchy whisper of cloth against cloth, and realized that he'd also gotten rid of the soft cotton boxers that he'd worn to bed. "And these are feeling a little tight, all of a sudden."

He then reached down and carefully pulled her top leg up and over his hip, so that her body rested more fully against his. She was suddenly far more open to him, far more available to him, far more vulnerable to him. And to his oh so very talented fingers.

She sucked in a quick, harsh gasp of air when he reached her center, combing through the curls where her legs met, and encountering undeniable evidence of just how badly she wanted him, wanted this.

His fingers glided over the soft, slick folds marking the entrance to her body, his touch the more devastating for its gentleness. It was slow, lingering, exploratory. He moved as if they had all the time in the world. As if it wasn't already taking every last bit of her composure just to keep from flying apart at his touch. As if she wasn't ready to crawl through broken glass to feel him inside her, stroking her. As if he thought she could wait. As if he thought she actually would.

But she'd never been a pushover where he was concerned, and she wasn't about to start now.

So she tilted her pelvis just a tiny bit, and arched the small of her back against him. She nudged herself against the hard, yet velvety soft, length of him, where it lay nestled in the crease of her buttocks, and reached back with one hand to hold his hips to her while she repeated the motion, repeated the caress. Repeated it until they were both moaning with pleasure.

Finally, he gasped, then chuckled, the sound a little shaky.

"For God's sake, Ziva," he groaned, his voice vibrating roughly in the back of his throat. "What are you trying to do, kill me?"

"You are the one taking your own sweet time this morning," she retorted lightly, the words little more than a whisper, her eyes still shut, her hips undulating slowly in response to his continuing caresses. His long, supple fingers eased into her body and out again, the leisurely rhythm utterly captivating her.

"Ziva, you know you should never rush the good stuff," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of her eye. "And believe me, I - as much as you - want it, all of it. And I'm in no hurry for any of it to end."

She had more to say to him, well-crafted arguments regarding need and the potency of desire. But just then his two fingers slipped slowly out of her and, drifting, glanced over the small knot of nerves that lay hidden in her body's recesses. Moist from their foray inside of her, they circled over her flesh.

"God!" Her body jerked, as she cried out. Her hips suddenly moved with more urgency, reaching for that *thing*, that promise of ecstasy, that shattering rush that he'd given her before. And, as he moved to finally sheathe himself inside of her, she knew, with a kind of explosive joy, it was a rush that she would soon share with him again.

He carefully pushed inside of her, pushing past the initial resistance of her body, and into its hot, wet confines. His hand spread wide on her pelvic bone, pressing her to him, controlling their joining. His other hand still played over her breasts, tracing their peaks, kneading the soft mounds, squeezing the exquisitely sensitive flesh with finely measured force. Until, at last, he was embedded in her, buried to his hilt.

"Oh, yes," he groaned into her hair. And then he slowly began to move.

From where she lay, sideways on her hip, she couldn't get any leverage for moving. She had to allow him to take the lead, to take control, to decide at just what pace their passion was to unfold. And, judging by the speed at which he was currently thrusting into her, his groin meeting her buttocks, he was still in no hurry.

He gently thrust at her from behind, his hand splayed low on her stomach, holding her body to his. Coaxing her to rock with him, urging her ever closer.

His breath fanned her hair, warm and hard. With all of his concentration centered on the lower half of his body, on the joining of their bodies, on the increasingly demanding way in which his hips came into contact with hers, the hand on her breast had finally ceased its movement. It was almost as if the split in focus was too much, even for him. As if everything he had was being funneled into their physical union. As if the best he could do was to merely place his palm over her one breast, lifting it slightly, cradling it carefully, in a manner that encouraged Ziva to muse to herself that he was, at that moment, somehow safeguarding her heart.

"God, I love this," he murmured heatedly from near her ear, his need stripping his voice of its accustomed cultured tones, instead leaving it raw with passion. "I love the way you want me. How you respond to me. Those little noises you make when I move inside of you. The feel of you taking me in, holding me..."

"I love you," she told him simply, softly. One of her hands reached up to entwine in his hair, the other running slowly up his flank, reveling in the play of muscle there.

He groaned once more. "Oh, God, Ziva... My God..."

Then the hand that had rested below her navel, its fingers pointing downward, inched toward where their bodies were joined. With an unerring sort of awareness, it searched for that most sensitive point of her anatomy. That tiny little bud that, when touched by this man, had the power to turn her into an unthinking creature, one consumed by sensation, divested of thought, language, reason, and pride. A woman who craved release like a wild animal. A woman who hungered with a kind of desperation for that same mind-blowing release for him.

He found her. His fingers, wet with her own body's moisture, were gliding over her. Swirling, sliding, upping her desire. Driving her to that place where she felt she simply had to split right through her skin, her physical body incapable of containing all the tumult, the nearly violent desire roiling around inside her. He patiently continued his loving assault. The pressure he exerted over her feverishly tender skin was never bruising or frightening, merely relentless.

Her head twisted restlessly on the pillow, her hair tangling over her face, tickling her nose, catching in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes remained tightly shut.

"C'mon, Ziva, let it happen," he crooned in a hoarse whisper, as he nuzzled her neck, touching her temple, her cheek, through the dark fringe of hair that surrounded them. His hand and his hips were unceasing in their efforts to totally and utterly disassemble her. "Just let it happen."

She wanted to, didn't he understand that? It was just that it was too much. The feelings that he was able to draw from her had always been overwhelming. She used to worry that, caught in the undertow of emotions that she associated with this particular man, trapped in their strength like some overly confident surfer clinging to a board, she might get washed away completely. She'd worried that, when the foam cleared, and the surf settled, she might cease to exist altogether. She'd worried that she - those things that made her her - might get pulled away, swallowed into the bottomless ocean that was this man. Drowned by his needs, his demons, his desires.

It was certainly true that he wanted her surrender, wanted to watch as she tumbled headlong into rapture. But not to prove his power over her, and not to control or master her, as the other men in her life had done. But, instead, as if by giving her such a gift, by placing her own pleasure - her own fulfillment - before his, he hoped to prove to her, and to himself, that he was worthy of her. That, in some bizarre way, he deserved the happiness, the peace, the fragile joy she knew without a doubt that he'd discovered as a result of their relationship.

And with that as a motivation, how could she deny him anything? Her breath coming in frantic little gasps, her mouth opened on a cry that was his name. Her neck arched, one small hand tightened on his buttocks, digging into the resilient flesh there. Her other hand tugged on his hair with so much force that she feared might hurt him. Her hips undulated helplessly as the convulsions cascaded through her body.

'God. Dear God.'

The feeling was luminous. She felt as if she were soaring, blazing across consciousness. Her skin flushed; going hot, then, surprisingly, cold. She was vaguely aware that her body was now dewed with sweat. And, as if she'd been hit with a bolt of lightning, the hair on her arms stood literally on end. For a moment, she couldn't catch her breath, her chest heaving.

Then, gradually, softly, like a feather tossed on the wind, she floated back down to earth. And into his arms, safe, secure, loved, cherished.

They lay there, motionless. His hand had finally ceased its gentle torment, and now just held her to him, her buttocks nestled into the bend of his hips. She could sense the almost violent tension vibrating through the man beside her, sense the extent of the need that he had yet to quench.

She was more than aware of the hard, hot length of him, still buried inside her, still longing for release. And, yet, he refrained from thrusting into her, from bringing himself to that same sweet peak of pleasure that he'd shown her.

He traced her hairline with his kisses, his body trembling now, just as she was.

"I love you, Ziva," he told her in a low ragged voice. "It's never been like this for me before. *Never*."

Licking her lips, she murmured softly, "Show me, Tony. Show me how much you love me, show me how much you want me. Share it with me. I want you to feel the way I do right now, I want to hear you moan with it, with

me, because of me."

His arms tightened with a nearly painful intensity around her. Then, tucking his head against the nape of her neck, he began to thrust in and out of her once more. This time, however, the finesse he'd shown earlier, the restraint, was missing. It was simply beyond him at that point; he couldn't think, couldn't move, except to - at long last - strive for completion. His thrusts were short, sharp, Ziva wondered if, despite the care he'd taken with her, she might not be sore, when all was said and done.

He rapidly picked up speed, thrusting urgently into her. His breath came in harsh little pants against her shoulder; his body threw heat like a bonfire. Both of her arms were outstretched now, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his short, silky hair. She gave herself over to him, to be used for his enjoyment, to bring him ease. He thrust against her, his arm keeping her tired legs spread, one still thrown over his hips.

Then, suddenly, he stiffened. "God!" His muffled shout dissipating into a deep, wrenching moan. She couldn't tell if he'd meant the single word as a prayer, or a curse. But the force of the emotion behind the exclamation itself was without question. He quivered against her, his body emptying into hers, his arms crushing her to him.

The silence that followed was almost deafening by contrast to what had come before. As if by tacit agreement, they each said nothing. She could hear her pulse pounding in her temple, could sense her heart's tempo decelerating, slowing, as her excitement ebbed. Behind her, his uneven breath ruffled her hair, and his embrace continued with all its fierce might.

Finally, he withdrew from her. And, although he pulled from her with the utmost gentleness, she couldn't help but wince. Oh, yes, she was going to be walking awkwardly for the next few hours. Smiling at the absurdity at the image of her swaggering like one of his favorite actors, John Wayne, she rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes.

She found him staring down at her, a shattering sort of vulnerability shining in his hazel eyes. It was odd, she realized, with a start. They'd just shared the most fearsomely intimate of acts, and yet she'd never once looked at him, never once born witness to the emotions swimming in those expressive eyes. Those eyes that now poured over her, almost drowning her in with their intensity.

He lay sprawled half over her, his legs entwined with hers, his elbows planted on either side of her head, capturing her with his body. For a long time, he didn't speak. Instead, he simply took his hand and lightly combed through her hair, lifting only a few of the silky strands at a time, while he looked at her. Just looked. As if he hoped to catch a glimpse of something in her face. Some mystery that he hoped to solve, or the answer to some question that only she held.

"Do you have any idea what you mean to me?" he finally asked her, his voice hushed, his eyes intent on hers.

She reached up and traced his lips with her fingertip, lingering on the full, sensual curve of his lower one. After a time, she nodded, her own dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Everything," he told her, with a faint, self-mocking smile and a helpless shrug.

"Not everything, Tony," she protested, her brow creasing just a bit, her palm resting now against his cheek.

"*Everything*, Ziva," he assured her. Then he bent his head to press his lips to hers for a long, lingering kiss, as if he thought he could end the argument that way.

'How did we get to this point?' she wondered with a touch of awe, as his tongue softly explored her mouth. How had they gone from being two strangers, both distrustful of the other, miles apart in their views, and in their methods? How had they come to this, this mingling of two souls, two identities? When exactly had it happened? When had that aggravating, irritating man become the heart that beat inside her, the very air she needed to live?

"Do not give me that kind of power, Tony," she instructed him quietly, when their lips had parted, her fingers trailing gently over his face. "I do not deserve it."

He smiled down at her ruefully. "It's too late, Ziva; you already have it. There's nothing I can do about it now, it's completely out of my hands."

She smiled wanly, still troubled by the idea.

"Besides," he murmured softly, as he leaned down to sprinkle kisses on her nose, her cheek, her forehead, her chin. "If you don't deserve it, I don't know who does."

"Well, that is true," she murmured back, her tone dry, her eyes sliding shut once more as his lips got reacquainted with her features. "After all, what other woman would put up with you?"

He stopped in surprise at her comment. "What!"

But she only grinned up at him. And, framing his face with her hands, she murmured, "I just want you to know that I will put up with you for as long as you want me."

"As long as all that?" he asked her tenderly.

She nodded solemnly. "As long as all that."

He gathered her to him once more, cradling her against him. "Then you'd better be prepared for the long haul, Ziva. Because I don't see any end to my wanting you."

"Good," she said with a small sigh, as she burrowed against him, a delicious kind of lassitude suddenly washing over her. "I would hate for the man I love to get tired of me."

"Not a chance. Not a chance in hell of that."

She kissed him softly, just above his collarbone, in the hollow there where she could feel his pulse beating strongly against her lips. "Hmm. That is what I hoped you would say. To be completely honest, I do not see how I could ever bear to let you go."

"Is that a fact?" he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest, beneath her ear. She could hear both the pleasure and amusement in his tone.

"Mmmm-hmm," she told him, a bit sleepily. "Do not forget, I have killed many men, and I can do it again."

"Ouch," he chuckled, kissing the top of her head as his hands smoothed over her shoulders and her back. "You've got me shaking now, Ziva."

"I do not," she said, with a hint of mischief in her voice, as her fingers trailed lightly over his chest. "But give me a few minutes to recover, and I will see what I can do."


End file.
